


Got Your Back

by trinityofone



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Bonding, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pon Farr, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Reboot "Amok Time" story in which things are carried through to a more logical conclusion. (In other words, they fuck right there in the sand.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got Your Back

**Author's Note:**

> Well it's the id-ficcy pon farr fic everyone may be contractually (emotionally) obligated to write. Happy K/S Day!

He never could mark the precise moment when it turned. There had been a brief scrambling instant when he’d gotten on top of Spock: his mind felt like it was burning as hot as Spock’s skin, trying to think of some way to subdue his friend without hurting him; to avoid hurt himself; to ignore what was pressing, with hard, angry urgency, against his thigh, and his own entirely inappropriate response to it. But mostly his thoughts were scattershot, lost; he was operating on instinct, fighting for his very survival—battling _Spock_ for the right to be the one to walk away, and it was all so wrong, because at the very least he needed to be the rational one now, now that Spock’s rationality had been stolen from him. Because that was what they did, who they were: they had each other’s backs.

He was on his back now, on the rough orange sand, with Spock firmly astride his hips. Jim had worked an elbow up, trying to keep the weird Vulcan bondage strap away from his throat, but Spock’s grip was tight on his wrists, and his always-surprising weight so heavy on Jim’s thighs that he could barely do more than squirm ineffectually against it. Spock’s eyes had gone from earthy brown to glassy black, and Jim could see nothing of his friend in them. He could hear himself panting Spock’s name, a desperate plea, but Spock’s only response was a grunt. Jim’s elbow slipped and the strap tightened around his neck.

Jim saw stars. He felt pain, blinding and white, but not the fear he expected, that he remembered. His hand slid down, knuckles bumping along the underside of Spock’s heaving belly. Jim’s fingers twitched, reaching, and slipped without real thought or purpose beneath the hem of Spock’s rucked up uniform shirt.

Jim could feel the burning heat of him seeping from that small point of contact, skin against skin. He half-thought—a vague wonder, a floating bubble of a notion—if Spock could sense Jim’s own thoughts when they touched like that, or if his friend was too far gone. _Spock, come back, come back to me, it’s me it’s me I’m here—_ He was projecting without thought, his mind floating away from his body as the breath came out of him.

And then suddenly, with the painful slam of a shuttle crash, he was back. The strap hung loose and sweaty around his throat, discarded with the casualness of a scarf and yet not fully unwound. Above him, Spock’s eyes were still black. His hands were on Jim’s shoulders, holding him more than holding him down, and then they moved up, the left assuming a rough steadying grip on his chin, tilting Jim’s face into position. Jim had some animal notion of what was about to happen before it did; he let out a short, gasping sigh, palm settling against the small of Spock’s back. _Yeah, yeah, yes okay do it—_

Spock’s right hand caught against Jim’s cheek and chin and temple at the same time his hips thrust inexorably up. Jim felt heat shoot through him, like lightning racing along the ground. The sand clung to his sweaty neck and along the bruised planes of his throat. Spock’s panting breaths were loud in his ears. Jim felt surrounded by him, inside and out, their chests plastered together and the rigid line of their cocks a painful scraping tease through the constricting fabric of their uniform trousers. Spock shuddered and thrust awkwardly against him, but Jim—he had his back, he thought woozily, hand slipping along Spock’s waistband, thumbing at his fly.

Spock surged up into his hand. Jim tried to look down—to get a glimpse, to _see_ —but all at once Spock’s strong steady hands were back at his waist, were roughly turning him over. Jim could still feel the ghostly impression of Spock’s fingers on his face, the desperate hot want need burning necessity, and he was on his belly in the dirt, Spock’s hands on his ass and then on the back of his neck, pushing his butt up and his head down. Spock ground down against him and Jim kissed the sand; there was dirt in his mouth and his cock was straining against the seam of his pants. Then a wrench: Spock’s fingers caught and tore, and the fabric fell away. 

Jim was exposed. He’d known that—he couldn’t really have forgotten, could he, all those solemn Vulcan eyes on him, watching him and Spock roll in their sacred dirt, waiting for one of them to die. Well, they’d deliver instead a little death, Jim thought with a hysterical burst of laughter that midway through became a groan, a stuttering moan of pleasure-pain as the head of Spock’s cock prodded gracelessly between his asscheeks. Jim wanted to help, spread himself maybe, but his arms were pinned to his sides; he could only push back, eagerly. Spock was in his head; he couldn’t imagine how else he could want it this badly, under these circumstances—except it was _Spock_ , yes, and there was no closeness too close, no depth that they could go to that wouldn’t find him wanting more, more, deeper—

Jim felt himself breached. It hurt and it was the end of hurt and he howled, spit-sand screaming and digging his nose into the dirt. Spock was leaving marks all up and down his spine: he could feel them forming and he shuddered, aching, back into his bruising touch. He was so full and he would never be full and Spock was relentless, pounding and pounding into him, and though the air felt hot and heavy and still, he could hear the tinkle and chime of a hundred sets of Vulcan bells. He could hear Spock breathing rough in his ear and his own grunts and the slap of skin on skin, although it would dawn on him, with a questionable sense of relief later, that they were still both mostly clothed. 

When he came he spilled onto the sand and onto the tattered remains of his uniform. Spock kept thrusting, and then he was spilling deep inside of Jim, and then he was thrusting still, still hard, and they began again as if they had never begun. Spock held him tighter to his chest, lifting Jim off the ground, and he let his head hang limply on his neck, his hair shedding sand. His cock twitched against his thigh, not uninterested, but outdone for the moment.

After Spock came the second time, Jim heard footsteps approach; they were rather skittishly offered water, and Jim drank from a horn-shaped vessel until Spock knocked it away; Jim heard it break against the ground. Spock pushed him down again, onto his back, and weakly Jim lifted his legs; Spock barely waited until one was fitted over his shoulder before thrusting in again. Jim was distantly aware of a burning wrench of pain, but Spock’s own fire burned so much brighter; his heat consumed all else. Jim lay back and stared at the purpling sky of New Vulcan: the stars were coming out.

Later there was soft warm sunlight again on his face, and Spock was lifting him up. His eyes were still shaded, two black, liquid pools that never left Jim’s face as they passed out of the sunlight and into the shade of some structure. There was a hallway, and then a door, and then Spock was laying him down on some soft surface—oh, a bed; Jim remembered those—and stretching himself on top of him. So it wasn’t over, Jim thought, but did not feel sensible enough to evaluate this in terms of being good or bad.

It was _different_ ; it had turned again, in another moment that had slipped by him. Spock nuzzled at Jim’s neck, licking and nipping and seeming to try to suck up as much as possible of Jim’s scent. He tongued along Jim’s bared back—Jim couldn’t remember when he’d lost his shirt, although haha, so what else was new—laving the sore spots until they ached and sang. Jim made muffled noises into the sheets. Then Spock’s hands found and spread tender cheeks; his tongue slid along Jim’s crack, then circled down around his stretched swollen rim, and Jim gave in and let himself sob. He felt raw and achy and somehow still needful and desperate. Spock tongued and fingered him and then to his great relief pressed his cock back inside. His strokes were slower, more measured, and occasionally his hand would reach up and pet the back of Jim’s head.

Jim came again, dirtying the nice clean bed, and then Spock, still inside him, rolled them onto their sides. He tucked his chin against Jim’s shoulder, his hips still twitching lazily, shallow little thrusts that burned and soothed and went on and on, following Jim down into sleep.

When he woke again he was more himself, not to mention simply, well… _more_. Spock was out cold beside him, entwined in the mussed sheets. Through the tangle, Jim could see that, while Spock was down and out, his dick was still very much up and about, the green head poking angrily at its owner’s belly. Jim regarded it with an exhausted sort of affection. He was sore in several unusual places and he could _feel_ Spock—not simply on his arm, which Spock was lying on and cutting off the circulation to, but in the back of his head, an odd but not at all unpleasant ache. It was a sort of tingle, not unlike the pins and needles that were erupting in his fingers now that he’d managed to tug his arm away, but _good_ , like bubbles in a glass of champagne and the glass was his brain… Okay, probably he should leave the metaphors to Bones.

Reminded of sensible doctorly advice, he made use of the pitcher of water and plate of fruit that had been set a safe distance away from the bed; Vulcans would probably make excellent and efficient hoteliers. He sucked sweet flesh away from a coarse rind and felt refreshed—far more than he should have done, he thought. His belly was itchy with dried come and the come had a mosaic of orange sand in it. He scratched at himself lazily and, for Spock’s sake, held back on his laugh.

For Spock’s sake, he licked a last few drops of juice from his fingers and went back to the bed. The bubbles were popping with a new urgency; he could feel Spock waking up. Spock still _needed_ , but the need now was tinged with guilt. Spock was ashamed and terrified for him, almost _of_ him—the inevitable loss of him, Jim realized with a start. Which was ridiculous. Couldn’t Spock feel him, too, the champagne sparkling hum of their connection? He wasn’t going anywhere.

Well, considering Jim was far from clear on the semantics of shiny new mystical Vulcan mind links, he figured he ought to explain to Spock the way things stood the old-fashioned human way. He knelt on the bed and drew the sheets down Spock’s thighs. He was fully naked now, and Jim took a moment to appreciate the sight. All that pale olive skin, those lightly coiled muscles, and they were— _mine_ , Jim thought with a wave of surprising possessiveness. Well, he thought, running his hands up Spock’s hairy thighs—he’d earned it.

He bent down and kissed the tip of Spock’s urgently leaking dick. His. The thought tore through him with a shoulders-shaking shiver. His to do what he pleased with.

Jim began exploring his new property with hands and mouth. Spock’s dick was a long elegant curve, just like its owner; it was also already slick—naturally lubricating? How logical. Jim took a few experimental strokes of the shaft, then continued his scientific exploration with his tongue. Spock’s hips hitched. Jim, still bent to his task, glanced up at him: Spock seemed only semi-conscious, although Jim could feel a fluttering awareness of him at the back of his mind. His control had not yet returned: he was with Jim in body if not fully in mind, thrusting up into Jim’s mouth. Jim sucked him sloppily, his lips stretched and slick, his fingers clutching at the flesh of Spock’s thighs as he bucked. Spock’s arm lifted off the bed like an automaton’s, the hand clamping down on the back of Jim’s head, securing him in place. Jim was surprised—and then not surprised—to find himself getting hard again. He moaned a little around Spock’s dick. He had definitely, definitely come to terms with liking weirder things.

And less pleasurable ones, too, he thought grinding against the bed, glorying in the needy, unVulcanlike sounds Spock was making. Then suddenly his groans broke apart into a gasp and he ceased driving up into Jim’s mouth mid-thrust. The fingers knotted in Jim’s hair, firm against his skull, tensed and then fell away. 

“Jim—” Spock said brokenly.

Jim looked up, his lips still encircling the head of Spock’s dick, and saw that his brown eyes were soft again but filled with panic. He seemed to be frantically trying to calculate a way to extract himself from this situation—namely, the situation of his cock being in Jim’s mouth—but was unable to arrive at a solution. 

Slowly, Jim withdrew his swollen lips, pressing one last trailing kiss to the quivering green tip. He wormed his way up the bed to where Spock was lying, still as an awkwardly posed statue.

“Hi,” he said.

Spock’s bottom lip was crusty with dried blood from where he’d obviously bitten through it; he, too, had grains of orange sand sprinkled across his cheekbones like glitter. His mouth moved in some sort of silent plea, but before he could get out whatever apology or self-flagellating speech he was working himself up toward, Jim darted forward and kissed him. Their mouths were both sore and swollen and Jim’s covered in a heavy slicking of logical natural Vulcan lube—but still they came together like they were meant to. After their initial awkwardness and strife, didn’t they always? Jim thought. They fit. Reaching out to card his fingers through Spock’s delightfully mussed hair and over the curve of his ear—they just fit.

Spock’s forehead—cooling now, the fire leeched from his skin—came to rest against Jim’s own, sweaty sand-splattered skin, and yet the action seemed to soothe them both. “Jim,” Spock said again, on a soft intake of breath, and Jim just said, “Shh” as he gently rocked his hips.

They slid against each other, legs entwined, slow and careful. “Shh, it’s all right.” His voice did sound a little rough: as rough as Jim knew he should feel but didn’t.

Spock ran a hand, disbelieving, up Jim’s black-and-blue speckled arm, then up to the bruised curve of his throat. His eyes were still wide with worry, but Jim shook it away with a smile. He started to speak again but then remembered. _It’s all right_ , he repeated, warm with the new wave of pleasure sparking between them. He looked deep into Spock’s eyes, grinning a contented closed-mouthed grin and waiting for the moment he’d see his happiness alight across from him. _I’ve got you._


End file.
